


Feeling

by VenusTheMarvelTurtle



Category: TMNT (2007), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bloodplay, Cutting, Dark, Depression, Disturbing Themes, Gen, Masturbation, Pain enjoyment, Self Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 07:36:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3373214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenusTheMarvelTurtle/pseuds/VenusTheMarvelTurtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd been programmed not to feel, not to ever feel anything ever, because he was a shield, a weapon. But even weapons, even shields need to feel. After weeks and weeks of being numb, Leonardo needs a release. The pain was pain, yes, but it was so much more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> First Story on the Archive! Originally Posted to FF.Net.

He's not strange. No, no, he's not.

He's not disturbed, he doesn't ~~need~~ want help. He handles it.

When everything piles up- when it bogs him down, weighs heavy on him, crushes him, crowds his mind and his soul so thickly that hours upon hours upon HOURS of meditation can't wipe the grey sludge away, he takes care of it himself. He keeps them out of it.

He quietly purges himself of the horrible numbness and returns himself back to what they need him to be, all without their knowledge.

Like a good leader should. Like a good big brother is supposed to do.

Because that's what he's there for, right? To protect them? Shield them? Fight, live, die, for them?

All for them. Nothing for himself, except for this...

This...he's not sure what it is, really. It started...when did it start?

He can't remember.

But it's here, now, and he can't help it. It's his own little private indulgence. The one thing he allows himself to truly feel. It crawls out of his skin, out of his heart, the need, the impulse to be more than mostly dead inside, like he's been for so long.

By his nature, ( ** ~~not his nature- the way he was programmed. Programmed, like one of Donnie's robots.~~** ) he tries to ignore it. Tries to push it away, like everything else. Because he's supposed to. Meant to. Trained to.

But he can't, not for long. So he stops trying.

When he gives in, when he finally caves, they don't notice. They act like they do, but they don't.

No, that's not true. They notice. They just don't care. He's used to that. It's not a breakdown, a public, dramatic thing. No, it's silent. It's in his own mind.

It's fine, because he'll be fine, eventually.

It's sudden, and subtle. He gets up, heads to his room, leaves them there.

Leonardo, they say, where are you going? Why are you leaving? Sit here, watch this, laugh, eat, be happy.

Happy. If only he knew how anymore.

Feeling was forbidden to him, didn't they know that? He was Leonardo, he was the leader. The tightass. The rule follower. The stick in the mud. The buzzkill. The cold, emotionless, Fearless Leader.

He really, REALLY hates that nickname.

Half of him wants to do what Karai suggests, and leave them behind, forge a new identity for himself either among the Foot Clan or somewhere else, but he just... Can't.

He's lost the will to even want THAT the way he should. The programming was thorough in erasing his desires, his needs, and keeping him irrevocably and unendingly tied to them, except for these few little instances when his sentience leaks through.

His feet are on the stairs, and now it's time to act, pretend like everything's just fine.

Say anything to get away, and they'll believe it. Because he doesn't lie, of _course_ not.

I'm tired, guys. I trained a lot today.

"Pussy," Raphael snarls. Donnie and Mikey laugh at his back, never seeing how much that careless, flippant comment destroys him inside.

Just for a second, he tries. He really, really tries to FEEL. Anger. Sadness. Upset?

...Nothing. It terrifies him. Is he too late? Is it all gone? Has he missed his chance?

The urge spikes again, moving him along, higher and higher up the stairs. If he's being honest, he's starting to get excited. There's a dull pounding in his veins, and he thinks he might be shivering.

Yes. That's what he wants, and he wants more. He forces himself not to run to his room, to close the door gently, normally.

He can't wait until later, when everyone's asleep. It's too quiet then, and their hearing is too good. Better to do it now, while they're laughing and distracted.

It's dark in his room, but with a few rasps of wood and paper and a quick flash of sparks, he lights the candles by his bedside. He holds onto the match a little too long, and it starts to singe his fingers. The smoke smells like char and flesh and burning perspiration, and his green skin blackens under the flame.

Leonardo stares at his burning skin without flinching, eyes dead and empty.

The pain is low, and muted, but at least it's there. He's thought of using fire instead, but it doesn't give him what he wants- what he NEEDS. He knows what does, and it's never failed him.

THEY'VE never failed him.

He feels their weight on his back, and he reaches back to remove them. Yes, his hands are definitely shaking. The need is boiling, it won't be ignored.

Leonardo lays his Katanas on his bedspread, and climbs on next to them. Usually he'd sterilize them with the alcohol he stole from Donnie's lab, but the thought of waiting tonight makes him twitch, and he just can't.

He catches his reflection in the gleaming metal- vacant brown eyes, sweat soaked forest green forehead- and as usual, he doesn't see HIM, Leonardo.

He sees a tool. A weapon. He's nothing, nothing but a-

No, focus. Focus. Push it away. Think about nothing, nothing but the FEEL.

Anticipation. Anxiety, but not much. Excitement...yes, it's starting already.

Leonardo breathes in. Breathes out.

Places the sharp edge of his blade against his forearm.

A beat of silence before the steel bites home, and then...

Yesss. There. FEELING. A wash of frigid, crystal clear pain as his skin is rent and torn, sliced cleanly from bicep to elbow. It's shockingly strong and wonderful and he wants more, so much more.

His swords whisper to him as they dance over his flesh, forcing sensation on him. Feel this, feel that.

_You are more than a robot, more than a shield. You can feel, you will feel._

With every cut, every slice, the layers of stone fall away, and he can FEEL again, breathe again.

The smell of his own blood, tangy and rich. The sensual burn across his arms and legs from the symmetrical slices. The involuntary clenching of his muscles from the pain, making his breath tight and laboured, splashing more crimson on his limbs. He's writhing. Convulsing. 

It feels so... So...

More than that, though, is the _emotion_. Fear that he might cut too deep, and ecstasy at finally being able to experience feeling again.

His lines get more ragged and shaky as he goes along. He stays away from his throat- he knows from beforehand that he won't be able to resist once he feels the cold sting of death at his jugular, teasing and dangerous. He'll slip, lose it, end himself, and that's not what he wants.

Yet.

For now, he's content with this, even though the thought of _their_ faces the next morning ~~**when**~~  if they found him like that was enough to make him laugh at the image, at what they would think.

Laughter...Gods, real laughter. It's orgasmic as it bubbles out of his mouth, undeniable and delicious in his twisted joy simply because it's THERE. 

Raph might laugh, **~~when~~** if they ever find him cold and bloodless on the floor, wreathed in his own scarlet, chest still and throat torn open. He could hear his wonderful brother now.

" _Finally_ ," he'd say. " _Finally, old tightass is gone._ " Mikey might cry. Donnie might be sad, for a little while. 

His caring father, though...

Splinter would call him a disgrace, spit his name for allowing the **~~depression pain misery~~ ** stress to get to him, for daring to take himself away from his ~~**selfish horrible ungrateful**~~ _darling_ little brothers.

No, now he's thinking again. No thinking Leo, just feel. Just... Feel...

More, down his thighs. More ice, more fire, more feel. Yes.

Yes.

He digs his fingers into a cut on his inner thigh and screams into his pillow, _m-o-o-o-ans_ , nerves aflame as the limb jerks spasmodically. And he loves it.

It's better than any drug, than the strongest alcohol. (Believe him, he's tried. He knows.) It's enlightenment- it's like surfacing for air after being drowned, or finally being able to see and hear after being blind and deaf. It's pain, yes, but it's so much more. 

It's punishment and reward all wrapped into one.

He opens himself up all over, exposing himself to everything, letting himself finally breathe, until his sheets are red as a koi painting, there's blood pooling in lakes in the crevices of his plastron, and he's hard as a rock and aching beneath his shell.

Ah, right. This always happens. Somewhere in the onslaught of feeling, he gets powerfully aroused. He can never pinpoint exactly when or why, but it's constant.

He needs to really focus here, reign it in. If he wants the ultimate sensation, he has to get a hold of himself, just slightly.

Slowly, Leonardo drops one Katana, but still keeps it close by. He'll need it soon. With his free hand he frees himself from his slit, feeling- FEELING- the slight scrape of the dried blood on his palm against his throbbing flesh.

Here comes the tricky part. He lifts the other sword to his mouth and clamps it between his teeth, the metallic echo ringing coldly through his jaw. He places the first one flat against his palm, and carefully, carefully...grips his member with the same hand.

He's hot, so, so hot, and the feeling of the cold blade against him is intense enough to scald. He bucks upwards, whimpering past the bloody metal in his mouth. He's shaking like an earthquake and his senses are hyperaware, breath rasping painfully out of his chest.

He jerks himself, shuddering audibly, eyes squeezed shut and toes curling as he runs his thumb HARD down his shaft, making his groin ache. The blood makes it smoother, and the sword is so slick and icy on his heated skin, oh YESSS...

There's blood trickling down the back of his throat, coppery and warm from the blade digging into his tongue. Saliva floods his mouth, causing the slices in his cheeks to burn, and he _mo-o-o-ans._

His hands aren't steady, and it nicks him a few times. The pain is fantastic, doubles back ten times greater as pleasure seconds later. The blunt edge scrapes his wide head, and he thrusts again, gasping for air. He's so close, so close...

Would it scare them, his family, to see him feeling so powerfully?

He was the stoic one! The one that didn't feel anything at all! Would his father be shocked to learn that all his careful programming had failed?

Would they even care? Probably not. No, of course not.

He was not a shell! Not a robot! Not a-

FUCKFUCKFUCK-!

His anger builds and builds, mixes with the pain and the pleasure and SHOVES him over the edge. He comes, hips writhing, jerking into his hands, and the blade digs into his length, prolonging it. It takes him forever to come down from his high, and he savors every second of it.

He can hear them downstairs. Happy, oblivious. Safe and secure behind their shield, unaware of the severe cracks in it.

The scent of musk and blood fill his nose. The numbness will come back- it always does. But for now he just lays there, feeling.

Feeling....

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked, Review! If you didn't, Review! If you were sickened and disturbed, DEFINITELY Review!


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